


to the boy with his heart on his sleeve

by nfra3711



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24585754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nfra3711/pseuds/nfra3711
Summary: Shiraishi has always been there for him, through the good times and bad. Yet there was a moment in their shared past that has gone unaddressed for far too long, and it's time they confront it.
Relationships: Shiraishi Kuranosuke/Yukimura Seiichi
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	to the boy with his heart on his sleeve

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I have returned with yet another ShiraYuki! 
> 
> TeniMyu has been so kind to stream S3 Rikkai Nationals last week, and I had a blast watching it! 
> 
> As a Yukimura fan, watching the final match is always a bittersweet experience. This time, I also paid extra attention to Shiraishi, who, despite having very little role in this myu, showed a ton of emotions every time he was on stage, so much that it inspired me to write this little character study. More than anything, it helped me walk through his thought process, and the turbulence he felt through Nationals. I hope you enjoy! :) 
> 
> This was of course meant to be a one-shot, but if you're interested, it can also be seen as a continuation to my (very) old fics from 2015 - [Flower Bud](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3386741/chapters/7409315) and [Greens and Yellows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4231134)

“That was amazing.” 

Yukimura opens his eyes. His face is flushed and his ragged breath feels hot against his own skin. His hair is damp and sticks onto his forehead and he feels a very familiar kind of sore. 

He feels _great_. 

“That’s good to hear.” he says, a slight hint of shiver still audible in his voice, but the playfulness doesn’t escape Shiraishi, nevertheless, evident by the latter gracing Yukimura with a lopsided grin. 

Yukimura rolls over from his side of the bed, placing himself on top of his boyfriend’s equally flushed body. He tucks his hands against Shiraishi’s chest, looking up to meet his eyes with a small smirk, akin to a cat expecting a pat on the head. “I’d be ashamed to disappoint you after that really nice dinner you served.” 

Shiraishi laughs, hands finding themselves on the curve of Yukimura’s back. He can feel Yukimura shiver in response, although it’s not enough to stop his very stubborn boyfriend from making that cat-like smirk. 

“You never disappoint me.” Yukimura can practically hear him smiling when Shiraishi places a kiss on the top of his head. 

“Really? Not even once?” 

“Not even once.” 

He says it with such confidence that it’s almost convincing. But just like that, like an uninvited cloud of gray seeping in from the corners of his head, a haunting thought whispers into his ears. 

He can normally set the thoughts away, and doesn’t let them bother him. Perhaps it’s exhaustion from a long day, or perhaps it’s just him riding down the post-orgasm high. He dwells in the clouds, looking at a distant spot in their shared room as he presses his cheek against Shiraishi’s damp chest. 

Not until he feels Shiraishi’s kind fingers stroking his hair that the words hit like a hasty tide. 

“Not even at the Nationals?” 

The gentle strokes in his hair stop. Yukimura doesn’t look away from the distant spot, and it takes a moment for Shiraishi to process the remark. 

“Seiichi?” 

“When you came to watch us at the Nationals,” he repeats, and it makes him feel strange that he can’t decide what emotion he should be feeling as more words pour out of his mouth. “You knew the exact moment I was going to lose, didn’t you?” 

Silence. Yukimura turns to face him. 

“I don’t think you realized you were making that face. But I saw the look in your eyes, and it stuck with me.” 

There is a subtle shift in the look Shiraishi is giving him; numerous emotions seeping out involuntarily. Perhaps Yukimura can’t exactly name all of them, but he is certain that guilt is among them. 

“I don’t blame you. Not then, not now.” He pauses to ponder on his next words. “If anything, I found comfort in it.” 

He can feel Shiraishi’s fingers tracing down the back of his neck, ever so slowly. His touch is gentle, _too_ gentle, as if he is afraid to leave a bruise if he applies any kind of pressure. Shiraishi is kind, but in that moment his kindness just feels like unheard, silent frustration. 

“...It would have been impossible to find comfort, in that circumstance.” Shiraishi’s voice is low. Yukimura didn’t notice the slight rasp in it before. 

“Perhaps.” In turn, Yukimura runs his hand against the other’s chest, eyes following an invisible trail across his collarbones. “For the least it was grounding. Amidst the cheers and suspense, the laughter, the confusion….You were the only one who looked at me in the eye” 

Another shift. His boyfriend is an honest young man, and thanks to that fact, it typically wouldn’t be a challenge for Yukimura to cruise through what Shiraishi was thinking. This time is different. The clouds are dark and the tides uncertain. 

Shiraishi remains quiet for a while, as if he’s throwing himself back into that precise moment, standing by the court. It’s not necessarily a pleasant place to go back to, but an important one, nevertheless. 

“...There were a lot of things I wished I could say to you, at that time,” he finally says, though doubt is lacing every word. 

“You can say them right now.” 

“They’re really not that important.” He sighs, and the feeble touch against Yukimura’s neck becomes slightly more tense. “Not now, anyway. We’ve both grown since then.” 

“Yet it continues to bother you,” Yukimura says, patient. “Which means it’s more important than you give it credit.” 

He’s right, and oh does Yukimura know he’s right. As much as Shiraishi hid behind the veil that was ‘fun’ and ‘laughter’ in his leadership, he didn’t get to where he was by pulling pranks and cracking lame one-liners. He has pride, and the skills and dedication to back it up, and no matter how much he liked to claim that his failure to bring his team that trophy was a past long gone, Yukimura could see right through it. The anger. The disappointment. The ‘what-ifs’. The _shame_.

He was just a lot better in hiding it than Yukimura was, and perhaps, it was why Yukimura had always clung to him. Perhaps it was easier; being validated, supported, brought up instead of getting kicked into the curb when he was at his lowest, and god knows Yukimura needed that, despite his futile attempts to convince himself otherwise. 

If Yukimura would list every time Shiraishi had held out his hand for him whenever he needed someone to keep him afloat, he would be going at it all night, all morning. 

...It wasn’t truly fair. It was _easier_ , for the both of them, sure, but it wasn’t _fair._

Shiraishi was right, though, in that they’ve grown, stronger, a lot stronger since then, and it certainly means that Yukimura has grown strong enough to take whatever it was Shiraishi held back from him, that many years ago. 

Is it a bit too late? Probably, Yukimura muses, but there they are, still together, tighter and closer than ever, guised behind the easy cover of happiness. 

He doesn’t want it to be a guise, not anymore. And he knows the first step is to allow Shiraishi to feel, to be upset, to be upset _at him_ , because he’s no longer that scared middle schooler who hides under a mask of honor; honor that trumps everything else in his life. 

...Because there’s no longer a point to his honor, if that means Shiraishi continues to keep his head under water, to keep Yukimura’s on the surface. 

Certainly, the dark in Shiraishi’s eyes isn’t something Yukimura is used to. He’s grown accustomed to the cheery sparkles in them, the pleasant laughter he makes, and the adoring smile that is much kinder than what Yukimura deserves. 

Yet he welcomes the dark, embraces it, as he plants a tentative kiss on Shiraishi’s neck, his fingers continue to trail across his chest. 

“Go on,” he says, slow, with another kiss. “I can take it.” 

“I was angry.” 

Shiraishi’s response comes a little bit too fast, and the silence following it comes even faster. 

Yukimura waits. 

“‘ _Making a second year a captain is going too far, isn’t it?_ ’, was what I thought. It was what I told myself, every day, every night, to convince myself that our loss to Rikkai wasn’t entirely on me.” 

His breath hitches. Yukimura could feel it against his own skin. 

“‘ _Our line-up was messy’, ‘We need more structure to choose our regulars’, ‘Our training schedule needs more council’, ‘We need more budget to buy better equipment’_

Excuses, excuses. All I could come up with were a bunch of excuses.” 

There is a growing tremor lacing Shiraishi’s voice. Yukimura doesn’t comment on it, and his touch remains constant, unchanging, encouraging. 

“But three straight losses is embarrassing, isn’t it? It’s humiliating and pathetic, and it was all on me.” 

Yukimura weighs the truth in that statement. Truly, a captain holds a semblance of responsibility on his team’s results- whether it’s sweet, sweet victory or a crushing, painful defeat. He’s been there himself, and he had lost count on how many nights he lost sleep over it, being weighted by the overwhelming feeling of guilt and failure. 

But a victorious team consists of more than just a strong captain. A victorious team requires every single one of its members to commit to one, uniform cause, and his own only earned the two consecutive wins because every one of them took it upon themselves that losing was simply not acceptable, and they wore that badge on their chest and stood with pride, with him, alongside him. 

He certainly doesn’t know what to say, even if he wishes to attempt offering some vague sense of comfort to the increasingly trembling body underneath him. 

Shiraishi always made it look so easy. His kind words always seemed to roll over his tongue as if they were already transcribed there. He always knew what to say, what Yukimura needed to hear, and his voice would always lull him back to a place where he knew everything would be alright. 

And the voice in the back of his head whispers, as unwelcome as it is, that perhaps if he was any better at reciprocating, Shiraishi wouldn’t have to drown all the time. 

The slow touch on Shiraishi’s chest pricks a little, when Yukimura subconsciously grazes his nails against his skin. 

Shiraishi stops, as if on cue, and Yukimura notices a swift veil of clarity rolling over the dark in the former’s eyes- one that is as real of a pet as Sanada’s pet rock. 

“I’m making you uncomfortable.” 

“Stop.” Yukimura looks up, eyes meeting his. A cloud of doubts may be daunting him from a corner of his mind, but nothing shall take away the certainty in his eyes. “I want to hear it.” 

Shiraishi makes that look- the look of concern he has on his face whenever he thinks he’s doing something wrong. There’s nothing wrong with what he’s doing- except that Yukimura should’ve let it happen sooner. 

“Please.” He tries, with an attempt of dulling the edge in his voice that always seems to refuse to leave. 

He can feel Shiraishi’s arms scooping him closer, and his face buried against his dark hair. What feels like minutes seem to pass before either of them speaks again. 

“...So I trained, and trained, and trained.” His voice sounds slightly muffled when his face is buried in hair, yet Yukimura can’t tell for certain if it’s really because of that, or if the tremor in his voice has re-surfaced once more. “Because that was all I could do to make up for the humiliation my team had to face. Because of me. I had to be stronger, for my team, for myself. I had to be more than strong. I had to be perfect.”

“‘ _Next year, next year_ ,’ I kept repeating to myself. ‘ _We will earn what we lost,' ‘We will beat them,’ ‘We will show them what we’re worth_ ’” 

Another hitch in his breath. Yukimura can feel something burning in the pit of his stomach. He knows what it is, oh he knows absolutely what it is- the strong-rooted pride of his that is just _screaming_ at him to rebuke. 

‘ _That’s ridiculous,_ ’ said pride echoes, ‘ _There’s no way you could’ve beaten us,_ ’ his honor follows. ‘I _t would have been our third consecutive win,_ ’ his ego confirms. 

“I wanted to play against you.” The words have already left his mouth before he could think of them. “Even in our second year. I wanted to play against you” 

_What would have happened, he wonders?_

_Would they have grown as close as they did, if they ended up as rivals?_

_Would things have gone as nice and sweet and perfect as they were, if they stood against each other?_

_Would Shiraishi have been the one instead to rob him off that third consecutive win?_

\---The line of thoughts doesn’t last very long, as it’s interrupted by Shiraishi’s chuckle- a sound that Yukimura certainly didn’t expect to hear, not now at least, out of all times. 

“You’re wondering if I would’ve won.” 

There’s something akin to a smile on Shiraishi’s face. If there is something he has gotten very good at through the years, it’s to land an accurate guess on Yukimura’s thoughts. 

“...It’s not impossible.” 

Truly, it wasn’t. 

“Perhaps…” Shiraishi trails off, again, and his eyes wander away. “But I wasn’t good enough to even get there, was I?” 

“Neither was I.” 

It was surprising how fast those words slipped out, almost as if they carried no weight at all. It was even more surprising, though, that it didn’t feel as bad as he expected it to, saying it, admitting it out loud; his true moments of weakness that he didn’t dare speak of for the longest of time. 

There is a bitter tang at the tip of his tongue, once the words have left his lips. Yet it didn’t taste like shame, it didn’t taste like guilt. 

Just the cold, hard truth. One he has embraced, one he has accepted. 

“We both weren’t good enough.” The bitterness stung, yet the words rolled over easily, almost too easily. “That was all there was to it.” 

Shiraishi is quiet, as if processing the words- putting them together- making them make sense. Sometimes the truth is a lot harder to piece together than fabricated realities, no matter how much one wishes the latter to be true. 

“...Perhaps that was why I was so angry…” 

It sounded more like him questioning himself than a revelation. Yet Yukimura listened. 

“Our journey was over… the moment we lost that doubles match…” He pauses in between, the next word sounding more uncertain than the last. “I knew I should be grateful I got to play at all.” 

His heart is thumping against Yukimura’s fingers on his chest. 

“But it was over… all that training, all that effort, everything I poured into that entire year… it was all over, in the blink of an eye, it was over, and we barely had anything from it to show for.”

“I was angry, I was frustrated. I wanted to scream, I wanted to hit something,” he huffs, a futile attempt to steady his heart that beats increasingly faster the more agitated he becomes. 

“...But that wouldn’t do...not to me, not as their captain...their loss was my responsibility to bear, and the least I could do was to look the part and convince everyone that we did all we could.” 

Their eyes meet. 

“....Perhaps...that was why….I turned to you, as my last hope.” 

“In my lowest moments I turned to you, telling myself that if you won, it would somehow make the pain go away.”

“Because I believed in you, in your strength, in your pride. I believed that if you won, everything would start to make sense again.” 

“It was foolish, extremely so.” There’s a feeble attempt to cover the muffle in his voice with a chuckle, and it was the most artificial sounding one Yukimura ever heard. “I was weak, and upset, and I tried to hold on to whatever hope I could find...and it was you.” 

Shiraishi makes a sound, one that he quickly conceals that Yukimura isn’t sure whether it was a sniffle or a sob. He looks away, breaking the eye contact, allowing him some space. 

“Like I said…” The artificial chuckle is back once again, and Yukimura is starting to hate the sound. “It’s not important anymore now… I was so young, and I haven’t fully learned how to process loss. I coped by helping everyone except myself, and I realize now that it wasn’t the healthiest way to deal with things.” 

“It wasn’t…” Yukimura replies, solemnly, his voice barely above a whisper. “... And I hate that you did that to me too…. You always held me up, always put me first, even during the times you needed help…” 

“...But what I hate the most is that I let you do it. I let you hurt yourself. I claimed that I loved you but I couldn’t see through what was right in front of me all along.” 

Shiraishi’s fingers are on his chin, lightly tipping it up so that they are once again face to face. Yukimura still can’t put a name to what he sees in Shiraishi’s eyes, but the gentle air that he has grown oh so used to, the comforting look that puts warmth on his skin- that he adores- is somewhere in them, looming, lurking. 

“You gave me strength like no one else could.” 

This time, Yukimura maintains eye contact, looking right at him with a strangely found determination. 

“I don’t need you to coddle me.” 

Shiraishi shakes his head. 

“Have I ever?” In an unexpected turn, a thin smile surfaces on his lips. “There is one thing that has always been constant with you, and that is your strength. Even when you’re down, even when you’re drowning with no salvation in sight, you get back up. Even when you get knocked down, again, and again, you rise stronger than before, every time, with no fail.” 

_Ah._

Yukimura’s heart skips a beat, and it gets just a little tougher to maintain the eye contact. He promised himself that this time, this time he would be the one lending his shoulder to Shiraishi, for him to let go of all his frustrations, old and new, to know that he’s there, for him, _with_ him, just as how Shiraishi has never failed to be by his side all those times. 

Yet he says these things, things that echo loudly in his head, resonating even louder in his chest, and before he knows it his heart is beating twice faster, and he has to resist the urge to throw himself whole at the other. 

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair how this man makes him fall head over heels for him over and over again, with an intensity that burns stronger every time. 

“Seeing you refuse to stay down, all these years…” Shiraishi smiles, a peculiar glint in his eyes, “It inspires me. Motivates me. Makes me want to grow stronger, with you.” 

Yukimura looks down, in a last moment attempt of composing himself when he knows tears are threatening to fall. Shiraishi, instead, wraps his arms around him, and pulls him close, Yukimura’s face pressed against his shoulder, and his hand in Yukimura’s hair. 

“So don’t ever think that you’re hurting me again. You made me look at myself, at what I was lacking. You gave me the push to be better, and not just for others, not because of my guilt, but because I want to.” 

“Keep being yourself, Seiichi, because that is the man I fell in love with, who made me who I am now.” 

How does Shiraishi always make it seem so easy? Wearing his heart on his sleeve yet snatching Yukimura’s with the mere sound of his voice? 

“That’s ridiculous,” he hears himself say, “You’re ridiculous.” 

His fist clenches, and it hits Shiraishi’s chest with a low, muted thud, followed by another, and then another, each hit lighter than the one before. 

“You’re doing it again…Putting me first again…” 

Shiraishi, on the other hand, ignores the thuds against his chest, and Yukimura feels the fingers brushing gently against his scalp, still, a feathery kiss on his forehead next. 

“Don’t you know I wouldn’t have been able to do any of that without you by my side…?” 

He feels the tears roll down, before his face once again finds itself buried onto Shiraishi’s welcoming shoulder. 

He doesn’t like to cry- he _hates_ it. It’s a display of weakness, distress, _helplessness_ , and he has done enough crying to last an entire lifetime during his hospital stay. 

So he refused to cry- even when he lost his very first match after miraculously making it out alive of the terrible illness that plagued the entirety of his young life. Even when faced with the very real thought that the said illness may return to pull him back to the depths of despair. Even during the few, very few, very dark times when he entertained the thought that, maybe, everything he did was pointless and that he would never reclaim what he has so shamefully lost. 

_‘It’s alright,’_ his voice was close. It was warm and comforting and _accepting_ . The hand on his back didn’t reprimand, and the one in his hair patient, both ready to hold him whole, his strengths and flaws, his good and bad sides alike. _‘I’m here with you.’_

And for the first time the quiet teardrop rolling down his cheek didn’t burn, and he felt that, perhaps, it was okay to let them fall, teardrops after another. 

“Everything you did, everything you’ve achieved, was all you…” 

He hears Shiraishi say, so close that he can feel his breath brushing against the shell of his ear. It sends tingles up his spine. 

“And I’m glad to have been there with you, every step of the way.” 

His fingers wander slow, from the waves of his dark hair to the dampened skin of his cheek. He gently guides Yukimura’s face away from his shoulder, and Yukimura finds himself awarded with the face that he loves, the face that is far too kind, that he feels his heart skipping another beat. 

“As I will be, on every step you take from now on.” A brief kiss, that Yukimura curses himself for missing, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

Shiraishi doesn’t recall for certain when his back hits the bed once more, and Yukimura is above him, on him, his kisses messy, a lot less calm than they usually are. Between them are murmurs of words that one would not normally hear coming from him. He adjusts to the pace, naturally, as deep and passionate, yet serene and composed.

He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

To wear his heart on his sleeve is a risky choice. 

To bare himself, his feelings, out in the open, may end in more hurt than love. 

Yet he does so, because he was shown that what comes hand in hand with love is strength. 

And when he stands with the unwavering strength that is his beloved, he has no room for fear, or doubts, and he has never been more sure in his life than he is now. 

_Truly, he wouldn’t have it any other way._


End file.
